The day in Korosten faded slowly. The sun slid along the stone walls, and the city that had buzzed with delegations that morning now stood nearly empty. Messengers departed—each carrying his own fear and responsibility.

  The representatives of Mosun rode back with mercenary escorts. They were not returning for negotiations, but to prepare for a siege.

  The town hall had grown quiet.

  Atrion, Balrek, Skeld, and Syra sat at the long table. Candles were burning low; wax slid slowly downward. Skeld was finishing his account—without pauses, without embellishment—about captivity. About the duel. About the fall of Rianes and Feren. About the maw.

  Naelis was not with them. She had remained in the infirmary. Refused rest. She treated the wounded, changed bandages, checked stitches—as if the pain of others could drown out her own. She did not allow herself to stop.

  The conversation at the table was heavy.

  Syra spoke with effort. Each word costs more than the last. Her voice trembled—not from fear, but from holding herself together.

  Skeld, by contrast, sounded even. Almost indifferent. As if delivering a report. As if he had already spent every emotion there, at the edge.

  His steadiness was worse than a scream.

  Atrion and Balrek were silent more often than they spoke. They looked as broken as those who had returned from captivity. Until the last moment, they had hoped Rianes was alive. That he could be exchanged. Freed. Brought back.

  Falling into the maw left no room for a plan. But those accustomed to war always search for one. Even where none exists.

  “No one saw the bodies,” Balrek said quietly.

  No one answered. Because they all knew what the mist above the maw meant.

  “And what’s in that maw?” Balrek clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. “Who knows? Maybe he caught onto roots. Maybe he fell intothe water. We can’t confirm he’s dead.”

  Atrion did not answer at once.

  “Unfortunately, he’s not the first to fall there. But no one has ever returned. Even before the civil war, expeditions were sent into the forest—searching for a way down, hoping to find a path into the maw. They found nothing. And it wasn’t only humans. Even the inhabitants of the Black Forest don’t know what lies there.”

  The silence thickened.

  “So why the hell,” Balrek suddenly struck the table with his palm, “did it happen exactly when he was standing there?”

  “Because it was a stupid coincidence!” Syra snapped.

  She rose so abruptly her chair scraped across the floor.

  “Like with Feren! You saw that clumsy fool who threw the axe. He probably held a weapon for the first time in his life. What were the odds he’d hit?” Her voice began to break. “You can be one of the best duelists in the world—and get killed by a farmer. You can be the best strategist, win a battle, win a duel… and then the ground gives way beneath you the moment you’ve already won!”

  She drew in air sharply, as if choking.

  “So what’s the point of planning anything? What’s the incentive to become better if the best are taken by chance?”

  No one interrupted her. Because no one had an answer. Syra shoved her chair back and left the room. The door shut dully behind her. She no longer tried to hold back tears.

  The men remained seated. The words were gone. Only silence remained—heavier than any defeat. And for the first time in a long while, none of them knew what to say next.

  The silence was cut by Atrion’s voice.

  “Enough. We need decisions. The Rejected will leave the forest soon and start moving. We must anticipate, not react. Did you notice anything? Anything important?”

  Skeld rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Other than the fact that their numbers seem endless?” he said dryly. “The army’s led by someone from the Rejected. Rauver… or Ranuver. Didn’t memorize it.”

  “And the Oaken?” Atrion leaned forward. “Do they carry weight?”

  “They’re on their own. Didn’t help us. But they didn’t stop us from escaping either.”

  A brief pause.

  “And that Suggestor?” Atrion asked more quietly. “I thought he was in command.”

  “Sivash,” Skeld nodded. “He thought so, too. But he argued with that Ranuver—and quickly realized he wasn’t the one in charge.”

  Skeld fell silent for a moment, then added, “And anyway… why would a Suggestor be the leader? Never heard of that.”

  He snorted. “Unless in Netrin…” but dismissed the comparison at once.

  Atrion exchanged a glance with Balrek.

  “Because we spoke with Katerina.”

  Skeld looked up. “By the way… how is she?”

  “She’ll live,” Atrion replied shortly. “But she’s out for months.”

  “As are my Suggestors and Velm,” Balrek added grimly.

  Atrion continued, “She said Sivash is the strongest she’s ever encountered. Possibly stronger than Hannud of Viskol. If her assessment is correct… he’s Fifth.”

  Skeld, who until then had seemed almost indifferent, raised his head sharply. “Fifth?” Life flickered in his voice for the first time. “Well… that explains it.”

  He exhaled. “That’s why his Suggestion cut so deep. I remember thinking how real the images felt. More real than the Vishaps standing right beside me.”

  Silence settled over the room once more.

  Now the silence was different.

  Because if the enemy army had a Fifth—

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Then the war would not be fought only on the battlefield.

  Atrion nodded. “Yes. The fact that you survived—that’s a miracle.”

  “It’s not a miracle,” Skeld said quietly. “It’s Syra.”

  Balrek gave a short, joyless smile. “She saved our asses, that’s true. But now we have another problem. In the next battle, we’ll be without Suggestors entirely. And Sivash? How serious was the wound?”

  Skeld snorted. “Don’t worry about that filth. His arm was wrapped, but in two days, the poison will start working. Syra said they’ll probably save him. But it will take time. He’ll spend this winter in an infirmary.”

  Atrion nodded. “That’s something. If their Fifth is out, we have a chance to stretch the war until Serain arrives.”

  Skeld looked up. “What war? You think they’ll march on Korosten?”

  “They will. But not here. They’ll go for Mosun.”

  Skeld grimaced. “Mosun? They’ll drown in the marshes.”

  “They won’t,” Atrion replied calmly. “Oryst confirmed it: the mountain clans built a road there. The army can cross the marshes and reach Mosun.”

  “Shit,” Skeld cut in. “Then we need to prepare the city.”

  “We already are. Balrek sent engineers. My scouts, together with Oryst, are riding to Zhuravlyk—to check the road and estimate when the strike will come. We won’t let them cross the Leshana at Mosun. Tomorrow we begin redeploying the combat-ready cohorts.”

  Skeld nodded slowly. “How fast everything changes… Fine. If we prepare, we can hold the river.”

  “Prepare the men. For now, you command the clan.”

  Skeld let out a heavy breath. “I’ll do what I can.” He rose and left without another word.

  Only Atrion and Balrek remained.

  “What do you think?” Atrion asked quietly.

  Balrek kept his eyes on the fire. “I think… it wasn’t them.”

  “Yes,” Atrion nodded. “It definitely wasn’t them. And thankfully so.”

  He paused.

  “But we’ll find out who it was.”

  A few days later. The marshes near the ruins of White Hold.

  This land had never been fit for life. A dead valley—almost treeless, with treacherous pools that looked like harmless water but could swallow a man to the chest in seconds. The ground did not bear weight. Every step required knowledge, not courage.

  From the ruins of White Hold to Zhuravlyk stretched a space that for decades had cut the last settlements off from places better left untouched. Only locals knew the narrow dry ridges, the firm patches, the small islands invisible from afar.

  Once, when the Angels guarded White Hold, they lit fires on the towers at night. Lone travelers would see the beacons and know where to go. Light meant: there is a path.

  But the Angels were gone. Even the bravest locals had long since stopped risking the crossing. So the entire kingdom believed.

  But not the clans. Driven into the mountains, pushed out of nearby villages by Ceredan, they sought another way. Not through the passes—through the marshes. Toward White Hold. Toward the Black Forest.

  The abandoned fortress had barred them from the Glass mines for years. It stood like a monument to defeat. The clans decided they would turn it into their own stronghold.

  And they began building a road.

  Secretly. Slowly. Plank by plank. Stone by stone. Knowing that Zhuravlyk and the neighboring villages would look the other way—because hatred for Ceredan was stronger than fear.

  A few years of work, and the road existed. The first clan detachments crossed the marshes and seized the ruins of White Hold. In their minds, they already saw new mines, new fortifications, a new sphere of influence.

  But pushing deeper into the Black Forest, they found something worse than Ceredan’s armies. They found the Rejected and the Vishaps. Not a detachment. Not a raid. An army. One that could erase both the clans and their enemies alike.

  The clans made the only rational choice—they withdrew. Abandoned the fortress. Concealed the road. Masked the passages. Pretended it had never existed.

  The marshes became “impassable” again. At least for those who did not know where to step.

  A Vishap detachment was moving along that very road. They were led by Ungaron—a seasoned officer no longer young, with the heavy gaze of a person who had seen too many campaigns to take pleasure in a new one.

  On the horizon, Zhuravlyk was already visible.

  Ungaron led the first of many detachments. Their task was simple: seize the villages quickly, secure positions before Mosun, and prepare a foothold.

  “I like this place,” one of the Vishaps muttered, stepping across the even planks of the road. “Almost like home. Fine work. Wonder how many humans drowned building it.”

  “Enough, I think,” another snorted. “But thanks to them. Otherwise, we’d be slogging through mud for three days.”

  “Quiet,” Ungaron cut them off sharply. “We’re close. Weapons ready. Use them only if necessary. Our task is to take these villages—not burn them. Burned houses won’t feed us in winter.”

  The formation tightened. Their movement grew precise and fast.

  Zhuravlyk drew nearer.

  Before entering, scouts circled the settlement, checking for ambushes. Nothing. No shots. No movement. Only wind.

  When the detachment entered the village, it became clear—no one was there. Houses stood open. Doors swayed on their hinges. The unit split and began checking buildings. Empty. No livestock. Warehouses cleared. Hearths cold.

  The Vishaps methodically inspected every yard, every barn. They found only a few inhabitants—those who had not left. They confirmed it: the villagers had abandoned Zhuravlyk the day before. Together with the mercenaries.

  Ungaron clenched his jaw. They were too late.

  Instead of resources and labor, empty structures. Reports from other directions were the same. Abandoned villages. Only those left behind who lacked the strength or will to flee: drunkards, elders who believed nothing would change, and a few looters hoping to profit from chaos.

  The Vishaps gained territory. But not people. And that was worse than resistance.

  At that time, Atrion stood atop the watchtower of Mosun, waiting for Balrek to return with news.

  Below him, the city lay divided almost in half by the river. The eastern side no longer lived its ordinary life—it strained under the weight of fear. The western side was prepared for siege.

  The two bridges linking the banks were packed with people and wagons. Carts groaned beneath the weight of belongings, livestock, and barrels of grain. Children cried. Some argued. Others pulled ropes in silence.

  Everyone was in a hurry.

  The enemy was expected in three to four days.

  The mercenaries worked without pause. They erected fortifications along the western bank, positioned ballistae and catapults, and reinforced barricades on the bridges. Separate teams examined the bridge supports—seeking ways to weaken them so that, if necessary, the crossings could be destroyed quickly. But the bridges were solid, built to last centuries. That complicated the plan.

  The port was changing too. The last vessels were casting off, loaded to capacity. They sailed north—the only direction still relatively safe. Southward, the river led toward Korosten—and thus toward the likely axis of attack.

  Atrion watched and calculated.

  The evacuated villagers had arrived. The main supplies were moved. All that remained was to wait for Korets’ garrison—if they managed to withdraw in order.

  He allowed himself a brief exhale. They were on time. For now.

  Atrion turned and began descending the tower’s spiral staircase. The stone beneath his boots was cold. His steps echoed dully. Then—noise. From the eastern side of the city. Not the usual murmur of a crowd. Something else. Louder. More chaotic. It could be heard even from the tower. Not just noise—panic. Screams. Hysteria.

  Atrion almost ran down the stairs. At the base of the tower, Balrek was already waiting—mounted, composed, tense.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Rejected. They’re already near Korets,” Balrek spoke fast. “The evacuation failed. Part of the guard was overtaken. Some were killed right by the eastern gates. I’m gathering a detachment—I’ll clear the retreat route.”

  “Damn it…” Atrion clenched his jaw. “How did they get there so fast? They knew exactly what we were planning to do!”

  Balrek shot him a brief look. “Just like they knew you and I would go to the Black Forest.”

  The words hung in the air. Balrek was already turning his horse. “Meet you on the other bank!”

  He spurred toward the bridge, his unit forcing its way through the stream of civilians. Residents fled the eastern side of Mosun in chaos—wagons overturned, livestock tore free from ropes, and children were lost in the crush.

  The order was unraveling.

  Yesterday, the mercenaries had been building fortifications—today,y they were struggling to retain control.

  The defense was collapsing faster than the barricades had risen. And with it, Atrion’s trust was collapsing as well. Because this was no coincidence. Someone knew. And acted faster than they did.